


For A Case

by Elizabeth Watson-Holmes (edye327)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, case!fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-06
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-11 10:00:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1171741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edye327/pseuds/Elizabeth%20Watson-Holmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By popular demand, a case fic. John and Sherlock are sent to the states to deal with a potential serial killer, necessitating (according to Sherlock) a cover-up wherein they must pretend to be a couple. After the case is solved, they just kind of forget to stop pretending - mainly because there's not much pretending left to do.<br/>—<br/>Sherlock glanced down at their hands and gave a small squeeze before letting go. “It’s for the case,” he said firmly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For A Case

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by these two tumblr posts:  
> http://lostinsherlock.tumblr.com/post/75699953273/teacroft-one-day-sherlock-and-john-are-going-to  
> http://lostinsherlock.tumblr.com/post/75645885796/i-really-want-to-write-another-johnlock-oneshot
> 
> Let me know what you think, and if you'd like me to continue!
> 
> poetichero on tumblr made the cover art!

 

** **

**_1._ ** _b e i n g **g a y**  i s n ‘ t  a **s i t u a t i on**_

"And you're absolutely _positive_ that this will work?" John asked for the thousandth time. Sherlock heaved a long-suffering sigh.

" _Yes,_ John. It's straightforward enough, or do I need to write out some nice large cue cards for you and hold them behind the suspect's back while we question him?"

"I'm just saying, it's a bit of an unorthodox approach, yeah?"

Sherlock spun round abruptly on his heel. "Wrong terminal. Baggage claim is this way."

John grumbled good-naturedly and trotted along beside his partner. "Welcome to America," he piped up.

"Mm. Yes." Sherlock absently scanned the signage. "Please hurry. If we're lucky we'll catch a glimpse of Mr. Brown before he makes his escape."

"I'm loving your enthusiasm," John muttered.

"Don't be snide. It's not suiting."

John weighed his options, settling on silence as the less risky one. He was about to inquire as to whether Sherlock fancied getting settled before or after touching base with Lestrade's contact when the taller man quite suddenly grabbed his hand.

John gulped, heat rushing inexplicably to his cheeks. Sherlock's fingers were slender and smooth, thumb idly tracing circles onto the back of his hand. A strangely natural gesture. Disconcertingly so, to say the least.

"Um."

"Shh," Sherlock hissed. "He's right there."

John felt excessively stupid. Of course this was about the case; Sherlock Holmes would never in a million years offer spontaneous displays of affection. "Right," he said, and tried not to hold his friend's hand too hard. Was that even possible? What was holding hands normally like? Should he loosen his grip? Why did this feel so comfortable? Were all hands this awkward? Hands hands hands. Acutely aware of how callused and unpleasant his fingers must be, John looked to the detective for guidance.

But Sherlock was gazing calmly across the airport at a bland fellow with curly hair. "See the tilt of his neck? The slope of his shoulder, right there? He's been on the phone all day. With a mother? No. Boyfriend? Hm." He furrowed his brow, mumbling under his breath about "crimes of passion" and "logical sequence of events" and "indicative of anxiety." John waited patiently, biting back the obvious question: why, exactly, was it necessary to play this charade when the suspect who had apparently necessitated this entire cover up was over a hundred meters away in a crowded atrium, paying no attention whatsoever to his surroundings?

He didn’t mind, though.

“Done,” Sherlock announced presently, striding off towards their baggage claim and dragging John with him.

“D’you mean you solved it?” He wasn’t letting go. Why wasn’t he letting go? John didn’t object by any means, but this all felt rather excessive. And confusing. Feelings. Fucking hell.

“I’ve gathered sufficient intelligence to go forth in the investigation with a reasonable amount of confidence.”

“That implies that you don’t always have a reasonable amount of confidence,” John pointed out. “Which we both know is exorbitantly false.”

“If you’re using long words to irk me, it’s working.” Sherlock’s hand shifted in his. Fingertips brushed his palm lightly. Well. There was that. “And I am not implying anything, simply stating a fact. This is a highly intricate case, one that Lestrade’s been working on for ages – it was per your request, I might add, that I regrettably restrained myself, although I’m sure everything would have been resolved at this point had you allowed me to intervene – and it is to be treated as such.”

“And this?” John cocked an eyebrow at their hands. “This is because...?”

Sherlock gave a bored, impassive shrug and drawled, “It’s blatantly obvious that our suspect is homosexual. The area in which we are operating is a relatively small town in Minnesota, and he holds a prominent position in the gay population here. In order to lull him into a false sense of security, it is helpful, perhaps inevitably vital, that he believe us to be sympathetic to his, ah, situation.”

“Being gay isn’t a ‘situation,’” John snapped. Harry’s tear-streaked face entered, unbidden, into his mind.

Sherlock paled slightly. “I did not mean... I meant that Mr. Brown’s crimes and inevitable transgressions, while unforgivable, are driven by a sense of isolation, a by-product of the bitter resentment and misery of living one’s life under bigoted and abusive circumstances. Something with which I, in fact, am well acquainted.” John felt a stab in his chest. If he could, he swore to god he would track down every single asshole who’d made Sherlock feel less than perfect, who’d insulted his appearance, used him, labelled him a freak – and John knew how very many perpetrators there were. He didn’t care. He’d find them all.

“It’s okay. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped,” he said quietly.

Sherlock glanced down at their hands and gave a small squeeze before letting go. “It’s for the case,” he said firmly, and handed John his suitcase.


End file.
